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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26101534">Stars are shining bright</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopeful_Foolx/pseuds/Hopeful_Foolx'>Hopeful_Foolx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blind Character, Blind!Jon, Blood and Injury, Delirium, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Support Martin Blackwood, Explosions, Gen, Good Cows (The Magnus Archives), Hurt/Comfort, Jon also thinks he doesn't deserve nice things, Jon can't selfcare, Jon gets a hug, Jon whump, Jonah Magnus is dead, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, M/M, Martin disagrees., No beta we die like archival assistants, Not Canon Compliant, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sickfic, Spoilers, The Magnus Archives Hurt/Comfort Week, Tim gets to yell, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:40:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26101534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopeful_Foolx/pseuds/Hopeful_Foolx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompts for the TMA-h/c week, every prompt gets an individual chapter.<br/>Day one: Self-Worth</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>225</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Day 1 - Self Worth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first work in this fandom, and I am so excited. I'm also going to post all the prompts in one work, but not as an ongoing story, but with individual chapters. Have fun!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Day one: Self-worth, pretend and shaky hands</p><p> </p><p>It’s not that bad. It’s not like Jon actually hates himself or something, while fair, yeah, he does, sometimes. More than… sometimes, actually. Quite regularly in the last couple months. But that is not the point, he messed up, he messed up a fair bit and so it’s fine that he… He…<br/>It’s getting him nowhere. And most times, that is fine, most times, he can distract himself and doesn’t think about it. They have enough on their hands already, they have enough on their hands always. And with Sasha gone, Tim… Being angry, it’s just Jon and Martin actually doing something. Martin. If someone told him, when he started that job, that Martin would be his biggest help, of all people… He wouldn’t have believed them, but he still can’t. Martin is just there. Brings him tea, drags him out to lunch every day. He stays until Jon is leaving too and actually makes him leave at a sensible time. Even walked him home on several occasions now and Jon, well, Jon… Jon pretends it’s fine. It’s nothing, he is worried because Jon got himself kidnapped after all, and the whole manner with Daisy. But here it is. Martin does all these things and Jon doesn’t get why. He has an idea, of course. Not like he would act on it. But all the gentle care he gets is almost overwhelming. He forgot his jacket one, and while it wasn’t exactly cold, he had still been shivering. He is always cold, it’s cold in the Archives, in the flat, the world is blue-tinted in his head, it’s always cold and unwelcoming everywhere. He is wearing Martin’s jacket in the end. And there are cough drops on his desk, and a box of heat plasters in his drawer when he found himself using his cane more. He did not put them there. Honey in the kitchen and the first aid kit is stocked with a bunch of new things. He half heartedly told Martin to stop one time, he is a grown man, can take of himself, all that. He doesn’t need the pity. But Martin just shrugged.</p><p><em> “I know, and I don’t doubt that you could do it all on your own. But you’ve been through a lot lately and it’s no trouble for me at all to stock up on a few things” </em> No trouble. That is what left him speechless enough to not pursue the issue further. No trouble at all, how can Martin even say that?! As if Jon is <em> no trouble </em> for anyone, especially for Martin. He’d been outright mean to him, god, he passed him off to be an unqualified idiot, then, after he had proven himself more than trustworthy and after Jane Prentiss, spied on him and Tim. No trouble?! He gave him all the trouble, he hurt him, and not even on accident, but because he wanted to. He’d been suspicious of him and even now, when he trusts him, he keeps things from him, he tells himself it’s to protect them but… is it? And in general, what can he give back?! Because there is nothing, nothing he could give back. Except for more pain. He doesn’t deserve Martin, he doesn’t deserve that he is here and that he brings him tea, that he stays with him. He doesn’t deserve anything that man gives to him. Not even his company. But he also can’t tell him off. He can’t have Martin worry and care. But causing him further pain is also off the table. There has to be a way to resolve this, and well, it comes. Just not like he expected. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Jon, hey, wake up” <em> No. </em> A laugh, familiar, beautiful, more, did he say that out loud? “Come on, it’s late, I’ll walk you out” Ah. Martin, Martin with soft sweaters and tea, Martin’s jacket that he is currently wearing because he kept it. Martin wants it back, likely, that is why he is here, right? He can’t have it back, though, not now. It feels like a hug, and it’s warm, and Jon is cold, has been the entire day. Even more than already, and now he feels the joints in his elbows protest, he doesn’t want to move, moving means pain, he’s… wait. Where is he? While normally he would panic, it can’t be bad if Martin is here-</p><p>“Hey, don’t fall back asleep, I know this can’t be comfortable” </p><p> </p><p>“fine” he grumbles and there the laugh is again. Exasperated. Quiet. Beautiful. </p><p> </p><p>“I hope you mean <em> fine </em> as in, yes Martin, I think you are sensible and I will definitely move right now. And not as in it’s fine, I’ll stay sleeping in my office chair when I’m clearly not having the best day” His office then. He grumbles something and finally, decides to listen. He likes to listen to Martin’s voice. <br/>Getting himself sitting up is painful, slow, but it wakes him up a bit more. He tries not to grimace too hard at the sound his joints make. It’s dim in the Archives, only his desk lamp is still on, but that is enough light to assess the situation. </p><p>Oh. </p><p>And the situation is that, well, he fell asleep at his desk again. Again. </p><p> </p><p>“What time is it?” He asks and rubs his neck. Unsurprisingly, it’s stiff, stiff enough it doesn’t hurt when he doesn’t move, but turning it to the side would not be the best idea, he figures.</p><p> </p><p>“Just after nine” That can’t be right, but when he squints at the clock on his table, it seems to be. Just that he can see his glasses reflect the light there too, so there is a chance he gets it wrong. Martin not, though. He is actually here, and he won’t tell the wrong time. But he is also not a clock, does a Leitner exist that turns people into clocks? Why is he thinking like that? But, actually, he should look that up. <br/>“Jon, if you falls asleep while just sitting there, I’ll be really worried” </p><p> </p><p>“You should be home” he mumbles and rubs his hands over his face. His fingers are sluggish, tired, he is, too. It’s not unfamiliar, but bad enough. He remembers the way here and already dreads the way back, the tube will be crowded and getting here after the eight hours of sleep his body forced him to has been hard enough, how is he supposed to go back home, tired now? </p><p> </p><p>“You are the last person to judge me, seeing that you are still here too” again, the small laugh. They have nothing to laugh about these days, and he cherishes the sound. It makes him smile himself, and really, he isn’t judging Martin. Never again, he promised to himself, never again.</p><p> </p><p>“Fair” </p><p> </p><p>“Shall we get going then?” Ah. Because Jon is not moving. He should, probably. But no, he can just stay here, not-moving. It’ll hurt less, for now. Not on the long run, <em> but </em> for now.</p><p> </p><p>“Just… Go ahead. I still need to finish packing up and…” he waves around in a gesture that he hopes is vague enough to leave no questions. Not like there is any chance with Martin in that department. Especially since he spots his bag on the floor, closed and… He didn’t even unpack anything today. Christ, how long has he been sleeping?!</p><p> </p><p>“Jon, you didn’t even leave this room all day. I brought you lunch because you told me you’re not up to walking around a lot. There is no way I’ll let you go home on your own, after I found you sleeping here” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fi- fine, Martin. Just tired that is all” It’s a stupid attempt and he knows, still he tries.</p><p> </p><p>“I know you are, even more reason to go home and sleep. Come on” And he reaches out a hand. </p><p>Jon stares at it. And his own starts shaking.</p><p>There are a lot of things about an outstretched hand. It can’t have many meanings, it’s an offer to help, a sign someone is <em> there </em> to help in the first place. It’s also a gesture of trust, of respecting boundaries, he doesn’t have to take that hand, not that he could say no. Maybe Jon’s hands have been shaking the whole time, the whole day even, they hurt, what does he know what they do, but now they definitely shake. Jon can feel that the rest of him is not far from it, too. </p><p>But no. He is not going to cry, he won’t start to cry now, not in front of Martin who does so much, who is still here, patiently waiting for him to say something, take his hand, anything. </p><p>Not in front of Martin who puts up with all of this mess and Jon on top, who brings him tea, whose jacket he is still wearing and who wears a different one now. Not in front of Martin who he does so clearly not deserve, who is so clearly too good to even spend a minute in close proximity to Jon. Not in front of Martin who has enough on his plate. More than enough, who is remarkable in ways Jon failed to see for far too long. Who cares for his mother and Jon tried to ask, couldn’t find the words, who lied on his CV for her and now does everything for him too and-</p><p>“Jon?” He realizes too late that Martin’s hand is no longer outstretched, but instead resting on his own, trembling ones that are pressed to his chest. There is something in the warm contact that just - </p><p>- just breaks him. </p><p>He is distinctly aware of how he can no longer contain the tears spilling onto his cheeks and how ‘not in front of Martin’ is gone, suddenly, and he wants nothing more than to tell everything to Martin, to tell him all he thinks about him, tell him so many things at once. He tries, he tries to say all of it at once and his words, normally while not easy, still there, they fail him completely. He can’t make him See, he can’t make him Know, what he babbles makes no sense even to himself and he tries so hard not to break down completely, because Martin is here and he is worried and Jon is not a good person, not someone who deserves any of it. Any care, any contact, not the tea and not the lunch and definitely not-</p><p>He loses track for some time. The warmth around him is like a safe cocoon, telling him to let go, to let it out, or maybe it’s Martin, and Martin is the warmth and Jon <em> shouldn’t </em> make him stay, he should tell him to leave, if he could just get the words out, if he could just find a way to say it when he <em> clings </em> so hard his fingers hurt even more and send jolts of pain through his wrists and to his elbows, he would let go but he can’t just do that. His fingers are as tired as he is. But no, he can’t. He can’t let go, can he? </p><p>“It’s alright, I got you. It’s alright, let it all out, it’s alright” He hears Martin talk after some time and realizes his own sobbing has subsided to a degree. They are on the floor, with Martin leaning against a wall and Jon… He is actually clinging to him. Holding so tight.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m- so-s-sorry” he gets out before he can even think of anything else. He can let go now, he should let go now. And Martin, Martin should...</p><p> </p><p>“I know. But please don’t be” His arms don’t loosen, they hold him, hold him upright. Martin is tall and broad and Jon sits curled so tightly into him that he is practically sitting on his lap. He shouldn’t, he should not do that. </p><p> </p><p>“I am, I should not-”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright, I’m here for you” </p><p> </p><p>“But I don’t understand!” he blurts out before he can stop himself, “I don’t understand, you are here, you are always here and I don’t deserve that! I don’t deserve all you give to me, I am a monster and even if I am not now, I will be soon. I hurt you, I hurt Tim, Sasha, Sasha is gone now and I… I-” he needs to breathe but his chest is too tight, he can’t breathe, how is he supposed to-</p><p>“And you are still here, and you care, and I can never give it back, I have never been good to or for you, and I certainly am not now, and it’s only getting worse. You are here and I wish there was a way out, because you are a good person, Martin, the best in this whole damn building and nobody, nobody deserves this less than I do, I-”</p><p> </p><p>“Breathe, Jon, look at me. Breathe” He realizes that his hand is still holding onto Martin when he carefully unstangles it and presses it to his chest, his heartbeat, Jon realizes, slow, is it good that it’s slow?<br/>“Breathe, okay?” He tries, even if the idea is ridiculous with his chest so tight, “Yes, breathe, in and out. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere” It makes no sense, why is he not leaving? But he tries anyway. Takes a shaky breath and another one, deeper, finally, “Yes, good. That’s good” He falls back and back means being held up by Martin again, sitting against Martin’s chest. He can hear his heartbeat. Feel it against his ear. His head hurts, feels thick and heavy, he is exhausted, he was exhausted before. </p><p> </p><p>“Martin” He finally mutters and there it is again, quieter, not a laugh but a smile he can feel the huff of air from. He closes his eyes and can practically see it.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi” he mumbles back, “feeling better?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m truly-”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop it. I know you are, but there is no reason for it. You deserve to have someone look out for you” He wants to protest, ask Martin if he did not listen, but then doesn’t, “We are not talking about this right now. You are exhausted and in pain, no, don’t look at me like that. I know that the weather changed, and you used your cane. It’s alright” Is it, though? Is it alright?</p><p>“We’ll talk about this in the morning, you don’t know what you’re saying right now” He does, he wants to tell Martin that he does mean every word and that this is the only way he can tell Martin, his mental breakdown the only real excuse to be honest. <br/>He keeps quiet and when Martins adjusts his hold and Jon is cradled tighter again, he just closes his eyes. There is exactly one thing he can say, actually. <br/><br/>“Thank you, Martin” The smile he feels is warm, warm in his hair.</p><p> </p><p>Something is different between them when he wakes up the next moment, in Martin’s bed, in Martin’s flat, the way back unclear. There is a glass of water on the bedside table and no clock in the room, the blinds shut. He finds his glasses, neatly folded on top of a bottle of Paracetamol, but doesn’t even reach out for it. It’s warm. He is warm, for the first time in… in a long time. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Distracting from an injury</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Self-indulgent, wrong, not canon comliant in any way. Did I mention I'm not further than Episode 160? Spoilers for 159 in any case. Also, what the hell is a timeline I don't know them</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Yes, Martin, look at me” Jon’s voice is trembling, only his fingers are doing so even more, but Martin won’t notice, Martin is looking at him and Jon is squeezing his hand, he is looking at him and that is all that matters. His eyes are open, and he looks at Jon. <em> Look at me. What do you see? I see you, Jon. I see you </em></p><p>“You are going to be fine, you hear me? Just- j-just fine” He doesn’t want to lie, and he wishes he could just Know that this is going to be the case. But he can’t know the future. He gets the feeling he won’t Know anything soon, that maybe he is okay for a different reason, that their plan worked, that they survived and the institute is broken enough after putting explosives in the tunnels. If not, it’s all been in vain, and Martin-</p><p>“Just fine. We talked to Basira, and- and-” There is not much they could have done. Killing Jonah, bringing everything down. Even while Jon <em> is </em>the Archive, he is an avatar of the eye, the eye that needs statements and they are all gone now. If they smoke out one deity, then that should set off a chain reaction, in theory, bringing them back into their own dimension, maybe. It’s a heavy feeling in his chest, that maybe, but maybe he broke a rib. One that is still there, that is. He has no idea how long it took for him to be there again, there is an amount of time missing between the explosion and waking up in the green emergency lights, he blames it on the blood on his head. Waking up and finding Martin. There is rubble around them, dust, the smell of fire and blood. Jon is distinctly aware that it’s his own blood too, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is Martin, always Martin, forever Martin, Martin who pushed Jon away from the explosion when they were too slow and who is on the floor next to him. Martin, who is bleeding from a piece of metal embedded in his shoulder, deep enough his shirt is dark red with blood, deep enough Jon doesn’t dare to move him. Rationally, he knows that help is coming, that Basira knows, that people must have noticed the damn institute collapsing. Rationally he knows they should be easy enough to access once someone cuts through the door,, and rationally he knows he could get out and shout for help, but he also knows that he won’t leave, he can’t leave. His head is swimming with movement and he trembles so hard he won’t come far, no, it’s better to stay here,</p><p> </p><p>“Jon, I-” Jon wills his eyes back to Martin’s face. Tense. In pain, in so much pain it glazes over his eyes, so much pain it shows in the way he is saying words through gritted teeth. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m here, not going anywhere” Jon whispers back and his free hand comes to stroke over Martin’s cheek in an attempt to give him some comfort.</p><p>“We did it. It’s gone, the institute is gone” it’s half said, half sobbed, and Martin tries to smile, groans instead. </p><p> </p><p>“It hurts” Jon swallows and coughs on the dust. His throat is dry, sandy with dust. Someone will find them, soon. Someone will come to find them. He just needs to keep Martin awake, distract him to keep him awake, conscious. He’d love to hear him talk, but that’s optional. No if it hurts.</p><p> </p><p>“I-I-I know, listen, I’ll…” What can he do? “Okay, I- I know something” If it backfires, he’ll blame it on the concussion. Is he concussed? Doesn’t know, doesn’t care, “Do you remember the day I got back from being kidnapped by Nikola?” Stupid question, really. When Martin had checked his office every thirty minutes and brought him tea, biscuits, a blanket at one occasion. </p><p> </p><p>“Elias didn’t tell us” Martin’s voice is hollow and Jon curses the man, Jonah Magnus, dead. Maybe it’s because his connection is gone, but he doesn’t feel watched anymore. Or it’s the concussion, when in doubt, blame it on that-</p><p> </p><p>“You were furious, I thought you were going to help Melanie kill him” </p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to, but instead…” Jon smiles and moves his hand from Martin’s cheek to his hair. It’s longer now, dusty-grey from the explosion, but still soft enough. Soothing enough, and there is no blood in it.</p><p> </p><p>“Instead you made me tea and walked me home that night” Martin chuckles, wet and the tears leave clear marks on his face, rolling down left and right, and Jon only concentrates on his face, on the feeling of his hair that he carefully strokes. It’s an attempt to be soothing, it’s an attempt to help. To at least distract. If he stays calm, he can maybe keep Martin calm. And really, it had been so <em> Martin </em> to act that way. Absolutely furious and <em> still </em>he cared for Jon. </p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to make sure you actually arrived” Jon leans down a bit more, there are voices, he thinks, but maybe it’s his mind playing tricks?</p><p> </p><p>“You did that for some time afterwards. Making sure I arrived at home without another kidnapping-incident. You were the only one who cared, and-” he stops, trying to figure out a way to say what he thinks. That he’s been trusting Martin since the day he told him about the CV, the most ridiculous incident to ever happen, actually. It had been ridiculous to distrust Tim and Martin in the first place. “and I think around that time, I knew for sure” Martin’s eyes are big, staring at him, because Jon doesn’t have to say what he means, Martin <em> knows </em> . <em> Good job in distracting him </em> his brain unhelpfully provides, but he just keeps stroking his hair and tries his best to meet Martin’s gaze, to look him in the eyes while he is talking, and are the vices getting closer? They only barely made it here.</p><p>“I knew for sure that I loved you. I still- I still feel bad for all I put you through, and all that happened, but before… before the coma, before the Lonely, before the damn apocalypse…” he takes a breath before he can start to stutter again, fruitless, he stumbles over his words nevertheless “I- I- I already knew. And I wish I had said something, showed you… more, I felt like everything happened at once, like days were not real, except they were. And you were there, and when I lost my grip to reality, you brought me back, just like you did here. And I knew I was in love with you, when there was no time, I know that, rationally, but still I wish I’d said something. If I- If I would have, then you wouldn’t have had to go through all of this alone. I wasn’t there for you, and I- I know I was in a coma of all things, not something I could control, but still, I wish… I just wish I’d been there. And I’m scared that one day you realize, I don’t know, that I am too much of a magnet for all sorts of trouble, and that I am not brave, I wasn’t even brave enough to tell you something you should have known, something that would have helped you” He didn’t realize he closed his eyes in saying the last words and snaps them open again. No. He can’t look away. </p><p>Martin’s ashen face looks back at him, and he realizes that there are more white streaks on his cheeks now, still flowing freely, and a few on his forehead. He briefly wonders, before… Well. Martin is not the only one crying. Quite frankly, he fucked up. He made Martin cry, cry even more, he should have kept quiet. Not said anything. He takes a breath to apologize, not to take it back, never take it back but-</p><p> </p><p>“You are so stupid” This is not what he expected.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry?” </p><p> </p><p>“You are the bravest idiot, the most ridiculous” He grimaces and Jon’s hand gets squeezed tighter when he takes a painful breath when his voice gives out, “brave idiot to ever exist. You don’t have to- to say it? I figured, at some point” </p><p>Oh. So <em> Jon </em> really is an idiot.</p><p>“I don’t want- don’t want another boyfriend- , not- not after-” he cuts off again, squeezing his eyes shut and this time, it takes longer for him to resume, his voice fades in between, “after the damn near-apocalypse” Jon wants to laugh at that, but it gets stuck in his throat, turns into a lump there. He wants to cry instead. </p><p>“...not gonna leave” his eyes close with these words, it sends a spike of anxiety through him. Is there more blood? Certainly, should he have applied pressure? He thinks he read about that at some point, but is really not sure if it works here. Was it only open wounds? Risk of infection? Why does he not Know?</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you dare” Jon mutters, unable to wipe his eyes clean with both hands holding onto Martin, “Look at me, come on”</p><p>Martin’s eyes flutter open again at that, but while they look at Jon, they don’t focus. </p><p> </p><p>“I can hear voices” Martin frowns,</p><p><br/>“That is… that is not good, Jon” His voice is almost inaudibly weak but the statement is so <em> Martin </em> again. </p><p> </p><p>“I mean real people. We’re in the institute, remember? We blew it up. And there are people coming for us, Basira” He can’t think of who else. He wishes for Daisy, but that’s hopeless, isn’t it? If it is Basira, then she knows where they are. He holds onto that, how Basira knows where they are.</p><p>“People are coming, Martin. They are coming to help” </p><p>But Martin doesn’t react anymore.</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>(At some point, between Basira giving up trying to explain things to Jon, and Jon not being able to focus on or process <em> anything </em> she says, he finally at least gets two things. First, he has a concussion. There are stitches on his head, they itch, he hurts. Second, they are back in a real London, the real city. It’s enough to put him at ease for now, it shouldn’t be, he should be so much more conspicuous, he thinks, but no. Not now. He can’t even focus on remembering a room number. He can barely focus on Martin, who no longer has a piece of metal sticking out of him, who is pale and has his arm in a sling. There is more, but there is more to Jon too, and it doesn’t matter, the word Alive matters. He gives up trying to stay awake after a full five minutes of having fled from his own bed to check on Martin; they haven’t been separated for that long in… a long time, no way he’ll let him wake up alone. So he sneaks out, gets to the room on the opposite of his, climbs into the bed and squeezes in next to Martin. He’s out like a light a moment later.)</p><p>
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</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sickfic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon is sick and accidentally compels Martin - or so he thinks. It goes as well as you'd expect.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>G u y s  Thank you all so much for reading &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon hates being sick. Of course, everyone hates it, if anyone enjoyed it he’d be seriously concerned, but Jon <em> hates </em> it. Unfortunately, after getting Martin out of the Lonely and after the ride up to Scotland, his body had decided that no, that was enough. Maybe he should embrace the fact that he still could get ill, and not all of it magically healed from one minute to the next. That he is still human enough to suffer through fever chills and stuffy noses. The first day had been alright, he ignored the headache as well as possible, and instead helped Martin take stock of the cupboards, later walking to the town for groceries. A small town, just enough to get by, quite nice if he had had the energy to look around, and he found himself liking the stores well enough. Though likely more for the warmth they provided, away from the icy weather outside. It’s not that cold, but the wind is bitingly so. Even clutching his coat even tighter hadn’t helped. He tried to keep it down, to keep his focus on Martin, the last thing he wants is to make him feel bad. Not for a headache. It’s annoying, but he swore, what feels like long ago, that he would never let Martin suffer for his own problems again. He had done that too much, all of this mess was Jon’s fault, really, no need to mess it up again. <br/>Martin is… different. He talks less. The entire train ride to the slightly bigger town he had slept, his head on Jon’s shoulder, held his hand in the bus up here. Loneliness is draining. Jon blamed his headache on that. And it’s not like Jon would have let go, not now, not ever. He holds on tight. But Martin is still Martin, and Jon thanks whatever entity has recently not tried to kill them for that, he is still Martin, he still chats with the old woman in the store, and he smiles at people and how did Peter Lukas manage to isolate him like that? Martin, of all people, this kind person who is so many things but first and foremost just that, kind. When he thinks about how cold he had felt, how he kept away from Jon and the rest, he wants to rip Lukas apart again. <em> Nothing hurts here </em> he had said, and yes. Nothing hurt there. And everything hurt outside. So if there is one thing Jon can do, one thing Jon promises to both of them it’s that he won’t hurt Martin. Not in giving in to the mood his headache puts him in or how much he wants to, needs to think about their next steps. They both need a break, away from everything. And the safe house seems to be the best option. </p><p>So he ignored the headache, tried to control it. What he could not control, however, is how he wakes up in the early morning, drenched in sweat and shivering so hard he hears his teeth chatter. He is distinctly aware of his head pounding, but nothing is worse than the cold, it’s inside of him, his sleeping clothes make it worse but taking them off is too much effort, will be cold too, even colder. He clutches the blanket, it’s no help, and then just wraps his arms around himself, to be as small as possible. The movement sends another chill through his body and he whimpers quietly, his hands fly to his mouth but get lost on the way, tangled in the blanket. He presses his face into his pillow, it’s so cold, how did he get so cold? Where is Martin? He needs Martin, or no, Martin needs him. Cold and Lonely, is Martin lost? How is Jon supposed to find him like this? He can’t move, locks his jaw so tight to not make any sound, but there still is a quiet sob escaping his lips. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh Jon” the bed shifts and Martin's hand comes to rest on his arm, carefully stroking it. Jon relaxes a little at the contact. Martin is here, not gone. Not in the Lonely. He is here, talking. Here, with him, in the cold- no! “Shh… It’s okay. We’re safe” Safe? Are they, though? “You’re burning up” No, he is freezing, he is so cold that thinking hurts. </p><p> </p><p>“Martin” he gasps and blinks, for the first time. There is light in the room, washed out from fever and without his glasses, a bedside lamp. What time is it? The smell of chamomile in the air, and Martin is still there, just stroking his arm. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, right here. Can you sit up? You’re drenched” Sitting up is not an option, and he shakes his head so violently the stabbing pain in it overwhelms the cold for a short moment, static fills his ears, and the only thing that exists for a while is Martin's hand, warm and firm, reassuringly there. What time is it? And what is time, when everything seems to be happening agonizingly slow and too fast at once? He tries to Know but his head hurts, he doesn’t want to Know, he wants to ask but can’t find the words.</p><p>“It’s okay, I’ll help you. It’s alright. Close your eyes if you’re dizzy” He does. He’d do anything Martin says right now, and he lets him help him up, change out of the sweaty clothes and into one of Martin’s own hoodies, lets him put a thermometer in his mouth, takes the pills he gives him and sips the water. All the while Martin quietly talks to him. For a brief moment Jon is very sure he’ll freeze to an icicle on the spot, that his teeth chatter so hard he’ll break his neck, but Martin is quick and bundles him up in a blanket. What time is it? Half of it gets lost in a haze of cold and fever, Jon knows it’s Martin who is helping him, but listening is hard. Maybe he falls asleep in between, he isn’t sure, when he opens his eyes, it’s still dark outside. Hadn’t it been morning? Or was that just because of the light?</p><p> </p><p>“What time is it?” He finds the words again after some time, slurred and slow. It’s warmer now, he is warmer. Some time in between he must have lost some time.</p><p> </p><p>“Just after four” Martin provides quietly, and Jon finds himself leaning on him, the other having an arm around his shoulders. The cold is not gone completely, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as before. And the light is on, still, “How are you feeling?” He squints up at him. Martin is reading, book resting against his legs, glasses askew. Tired, he must be so tired… </p><p> </p><p>“Did I wake you up?” </p><p> </p><p>“No, I couldn’t sleep” Concerning. Why why why… No, not Knowing “You were really warm yesterday evening, and then you fell asleep mid-conversation. It got worse just after midnight, but I doubt you remember that. You’ve been awake a few times, but I think your fever is finally a little better just now” He lost… A lot in between. Hours and… He really doesn’t remember.</p><p> </p><p>“You need to sleep” he mumbles and squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p> </p><p>“How do you feel?” Oh, the question. He forgot the question. It’s a good one. </p><p> </p><p>“Not as cold as before” Perhaps it’s an aftereffect of the Lonely. The eye needs to see, needs people to see. The Lonely had only people who were just that - Lonely. Nothing else. Maybe that is what made him ill, and also the reason Knowing seems so out of reach, “I… I’m just tired” </p><p> </p><p>“You were scaring me a bit there” Martin's hand is in his hair now and like a puppet with all strings cut, Jon relaxes further into him. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… For you to…” Martin’s hand stops for a short moment and he sighs, Jon hears the book being closed and then Martin is shifting both of them so he can wrap both of his arms around him.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine” It’s not, it’s not fine. Martin shouldn’t have to do this, he should not have to do this. He should not have to care for Jon, Jon should care for him, because it was Martin who had been in the Lonely, it was Martin who got manipulated by Peter Lukas. Martin who spent so much time alone, lonely. It shouldn’t be Martin. </p><p>“And it’s not that bad, you’re quite entertaining when you’re talking nonsense” Jon only grumbles as an answer. He doesn’t really want to know what he said, but if Martin found it some sort of amusing, then it at least hadn’t been anything about their job, or the horrors of it. Which merges into one, actually. Martin pulls the blankets up a little more and Jon sighs. It’s fine, he’ll probably be fine in the morning. <br/>“I’m glad we agree on the fluffy cows, though” </p><p>
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</p><p>“Jon?” He can hear his steps on the wooden floor of the living room. He can also hear the fireplace, he can feel the warmth. The sofa is close to it, and Jon is warm, too warm, but he won’t complain. Maybe he is not next to the fireplace but inside of it. Maybe that would be the best. He remembers Martin helping him down here, he remembers Martin just picking him up halfway through and he remembers himself complaining for a moment while he was silently grateful for not having to walk. He remembers drinking tea, and talking about soup, but he also remembers not wanting to, hating it, hating the pressure he put on Martin with being ill, hating that he has to see him like this. He wants to cry out in frustration when it comes back, it’s wrong, Martin shouldn’t have to do this! And he hates that he wants him back here on the sofa, his warmth even if he is burning now, the contact makes everything better.</p><p>“Jon, hey, come on. You should try to eat something” </p><p> </p><p>“No” he groans and Martin chuckles, why is this so amusing? Jon is <em> dying </em> here. No, he is not. Sadly, he knows exactly how that feels and it’s not it. </p><p> </p><p>“I know, I know. That’s why I said <em> try </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>“Go away” he mumbles before turning his head on the pillow. Martin's hand is on his forehead, cold, good and painful in the same manner. He doesn’t mean it, he is not the least serious about it, just closes his eyes and turns his head away, dreading the absence of coolness. When he looks back up, Martin is gone. The room is empty aside for him. </p><p>“Martin?” It’s only when he says his name that he realizes, the taste on his tongue is familiar. And all of a sudden, the burning stops. Not because he is better, not because his fever is gone - but because the knowledge of what happened is a block of ice in his chest. </p><p>“No, no-” He didn’t <em> mean </em> it that way, he didn’t want to tell him to go. He didn’t want to- He didn’t want to <em> compel </em> him to go! He presses his hands to his mouth, warm and sweaty, he didn’t mean it! When he stumbles off the couch and looks into the kitchen, Martin is not there. How did he lose control? How did that happen? <br/>How <em> could </em> he? Martin has barely slept tonight, because of Jon, he stayed with him, brought him tea, held him, <em> how could he </em>?! And where is he? What if Jon telling him to go away put him back into the Lonely? What does away mean? How far? </p><p>He is not even aware of how he stumbles out the door, still in sweatpants and hoodie, turning around and around and then again, looking for anyone, looking for Martin, any sign where he went. Should he call? But what if he calls and compels him again? In whatever way, or even worse, what if he makes it even worse?! He stumbles down the driveway, there is the path they took towards the town. What if he is in the town? Away, away away… </p><p><em> How could you, Jon! </em> he wants to scream at himself, slap himself out of whatever madness he fell into now, how could he? <em> Where where where where  </em></p><p>The wind is cold and he thinks of the Lonely, of the fog, of the ocean. It had been cool there, not quite cold, but Martin’s hands had been freezing, like Jon had been freezing tonight and Martin had been there for him, when Jon should have been there. <em> Please please please please be here, anywhere here, please!  </em></p><p>He stumbles along the path and the painful cold is back, it’s biting into him with teeth and jagged claws. There is a tree he braces his hand against. </p><p>Martin is gone, isn’t he? Jon messed up, finally messed up enough for him to be gone. Sasha, Tim, Daisy, now Martin too. All of them. All of them are gone because of him. And now Martin. They just found each other! Jon just found Martin, three days into having a chance and he messed up. How could he? <em> How could you? </em> He sinks down and puts his head in his hands. Fire, ice, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter that he has no idea what he is doing. It hurts, he should be able to know where Martin is. To Know. He tries to, tries to access the door in his mind, open it slightly… <br/>“Argh” he curls further into himself and presses his hand to his temple, there is nothing he can Know, he can’t even think, he is alone and Martin is gone and-</p><p> </p><p>“Jon?!” Panicked, loud, steps and running, he turns around again, and there is a figure approaching, from where? He doesn’t have his glasses, but doesn’t need his glasses for recognizing the voice, “Jon, what are you doing outside?!” Warm hands on his shoulders, holding him upright a moment later, “Christ, you are freezing”, mumbled, quiet. No, he shouldn’t be so gentle, he shouldn’t… “Look at me, can you hear me?” Yes, yes he can and Jon nods as much and as fast as he can, he shouldn’t talk, Jon should never talk again, no word should ever leave his lips again. But Jon also shouldn’t fall forward and Martin shouldn’t catch him, and he shouldn’t fall into him like that and he shouldn’t hold him, Jon should not cling to him as much as he is able to. Tears are hot on his face, unbearably hot, his breaths hurt, he is tired, god he is so tired, “Look at me, it’s alright, it’s okay, it’s okay, I got you”  No, it’s not! It’s not okay!</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry-” he stops to take a breath and swallows, and then Martin’s hands find his face, he makes him look at him. How can he smile? How can he look so worried after what Jon did to him?</p><p> </p><p>“Shhh… I don’t know what happened, but it’s okay. We’ll figure it out” How does he not know? He should know what happened, how Jon sent him away how-</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t mean to compel you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-” Warmth settles around him, warmth and the familiar feeling of Martin’s jacket. He shouldn’t, it’s cold, he’ll get cold and-</p><p> </p><p>“But… You didn’t?” There is confusion in his voice and Jon would see it in his face could he look up, but he can’t. Martin’s hand is warm now when it rests on his cheek and then on his forehead.</p><p>“You were really hot earlier, did you dream? I’ll pick you up now, alright?” he doesn’t wait for an answer and Jon </p><p> </p><p>“No, I told you to go away and then you <em> were just gone </em>” There is a heartbeat of silence and then… </p><p> </p><p><em> “Oh!” </em> Jon knows, now is when Martin will realize what he did, what Jon did to him, “but you didn’t… <em> sent me away </em> or anything” Yes, yes he did, that’s why he was gone and-</p><p> </p><p>“I-I-I did, I said it and you were gone, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, so sorry” Again and again, he presses his face in Martin’s scarf and continues to mutter it, partly because he can’t stop. It’s unforgivable, even if Martin acts like it’s not even bad. <em> I don’t deserve you </em></p><p> </p><p>“No, I know you didn’t. I didn’t even think you were actually awake, so I wrote you a note that I’d go to the pharmacy in town, to pick something up to help with the fever” What? It makes no sense. Martin adjusts his grip as if Jon weights nothing to him, “You must have fallen back asleep. I shouldn’t have left you alone” Jon closes his eyes, a note? There hadn’t been a note. But he didn’t look for one, he just… </p><p><br/>“I… I didn’t…” he tries to make sense of it - did he fall back asleep? </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t <em> make </em> me do anything, Jon” He left the door open in his haze to find Martin, but neither of them comment on it as Martin just closes it with his shoulder as to not let go of him. Warmth washes over his cheeks and he sighs. He hasn’t stopped shivering, but it’s better. Contact and all.</p><p> </p><p>“I would never…” he starts as Martin puts him back on the sofa again. Jon grips the jacket tighter for a moment and Martin doesn’t take it away when he puts the fallen blankets around him again. They are cold, how long has he been away? </p><p> </p><p>“Not in your right mind, I am sure” </p><p> </p><p>“No, no, I-” He leans to the side and rests his head on the stack of pillows.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay. Just… Don’t move, alright?” Jon couldn’t if he wanted to, inside again, he is utterly spent. But he doesn’t fall asleep, he is tired, exhausted. But he watches Martin, until he is back with him on the sofa and he can curl up against him. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry” Martin just sighs and chuckles, and Jon’s view falls on the yellow post-it on the table, filled with Martin's handwriting. </p><p> </p><p>“Not the worst thing we had to deal with by now, so, it’s alright” <em> ‘Went to the pharmacy, I’ll be back in 30 minutes. Don’t move, love you’ </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So. Is this too much? Let me know, haha :D Also YES Jon turns into a cat when he is sick, because I do xD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Touch starved</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After the Lonely, Martin needs warmth. And Jon, well, Jon has no idea how to people.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: implied self-harm. It doesn't happen, it's not intentional, but Fanfiction should never trigger you and so I'll better warn one time too much than the other way around.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>After the Lonely, Martin sleeps. On the train to Scotland, he finds himself with his head on Jon’s shoulder and sleeping, or rather waking up there an hour or so before they arrive. Jon is warm, and not because he is warm in general, but because Martin is still cold. Jon is there, he takes Martin’s hand and smiles down at it with a smile that makes Martin think of a warmth he didn’t have for a long time, while it is also sad. He can’t stop himself from dwelling on sadness, because sad and lonely are not so far apart. He is separated from the world, or he is not, not anymore. And that is… hard. So he clings to Jon and tries not to show it, tries to keep it down, tries to be strong. It doesn’t really work, he is a patchwork of holding himself together. No, there is no way to say it other than that: he is afraid to be alone. He is scared of being alone in a room, he is afraid when he doesn’t hear anything from upstairs when Jon isn’t down with him, he is afraid of it, because any second, he expects the fog to come back. He starts to drift, when it happens. He often starts to drift away when he is alone, lost in thoughts he thinks he shouldn’t have. When he thinks about people who left, and who died, and who will never be back. When he is alone, he sometimes imagines what would happen if Jon just does not come back, if the absence of the tapping of his cane doesn’t mean that he sat down, but that he is gone. If it means that Jon is gone and Martin is alone again. He can’t control it, when it’s happening, he is gone in his thoughts before he knows it, before he can stop it. Only realizing when something snaps him out of it. </p><p>A closing door. A voice. It happens so fast every time that he thinks Jon Knows and tries to make it not obvious. It’s only been a few days, and naturally, he knows that he is allowed to be not-okay, but it’s hard, because who would he rely on if he were alone? Of course, only himself. So he has to be okay, because nobody else cares. Which is not true, it’s not true, because Jon is here, Jon came for him, Jon cares. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have come, would he? If Jon did not care, he wouldn’t have brought him along, right? It’s only the two of them who are left, and sometimes, the times he is alone in the house, it’s almost like he is the only one. He could be the last person on earth, would he notice? It’s a thought that shakes him awake at night, leaves him gasping for air, trying not to wake Jon, always waking Jon, always knowing Jon is there, and Jon always telling him that he is there. And of course, he asks what was wrong. The small <em> are you okay </em> s scattered through the day, on their way to the town, when they are looking at cows, sheep. Jon seems to have a problem with sheep, though, and so it’s cows. They love the cows. And it’s not like Martin lies, he really is okay when Jon asks him. The problem lies in the moments when Jon is <em> not </em>there. When he is not there to ask. When Martin is alone, and it’s not alone in the house, alone in the room for longer than a few minutes. He is scared of being alone. He is terrified of being alone. The Lonely had been so open. So peaceful. And he prepared for it, he prepared to be alone, to be lonely. But the quiet there, the peacefulness there had been different from how it was peaceful here. There is no wrongness to it here. Even if he is alone, there is always noise, the wind around the house, birds, especially the birds. All he remembers about the Lonely is the fog. The numbness. The numbness is still the worst. Coming out of the Lonely, everything crashed down on him at once. Overwhelming him. Only when he found the connection to his body again, when feelings, emotions and sensations were no longer screaming, he found himself on the floor, hands on his ears and eyes screwed shut. Jon had talked quietly to him then, waited until Martin took his hand which he let go off when they exited the Lonely. Because contact had been too much. It’s not anymore, it never has been apart from that moment. That is what the Lonely took from him, and now he needs it back. Contact. Contact to people, to his friends, human contact, skin contact. He doesn’t know how to say it anymore. How to tell Jon that he craves it, that he wants to linger in hugs and contact, when Jon is careful with it. Careful with Martin. The way he makes sure Martin can always see his hands, he loves him for it, but it’s a boundary he doesn’t need to respect because it’s not there. After the Lonely, all had been too much, too loud, but it’s not anymore. He needs it, and the next moment he is ashamed - what if Jon doesn’t want it? What if it’s a boundary Jon has, and Martin missed it? </p><p>The window is open, it had been too warm in here when Martin began to cook. It’s soothing, kneading dough or just making tea, it’s familiar and he loves it. It gives his hands something to do, a distraction from the cold that always threatens to seep back into his bones. He chops the vegetables for soup when it happens, nothing bad, really, just a gust of wind that is cold on his neck and lets the window fly shut, but lost in thought as he is... It’s too much, he jumps, yelps, partly from the sudden noise, partly because his practiced movements get interrupted by it and a sharp pain disrupts his panic, his fear, that the cold is the Lonely, back to take him in again, the way the Distortion took Helen and the worms Jane Prentiss and the Eye-</p><p> </p><p>“Martin!” He isn’t the only one who got startled, and then there is Jon, nearly falling into the doorway, yes, he heard his cane fall in the other room. Martin presses his hand over the cut, warm blood between his fingers, staring at Jon who mirrors his wide eyes. Terrified. Such a big emotion, so fast, just a window and they are both back in a different place. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m all right, just…” He knows that Jon is listening to him, but ignores him nevertheless. His fingers are warm when he pries Martin’s away and then hurryingly presses the nearest dish towel over the cut. </p><p> </p><p>“It- It’s-” He turned pale, Martin notices. Jon doesn’t like blood, and while he once thought that nobody liked blood, he knows that that’s not the truth far too well now. Jon’s free hand shakes and it comes to rest on Martin’s cheek, warm and burning, Martin is burning with the contact, he has to stand on his tiptoes to look his face over, his eyes a shimmer of green for a moment as the eye tells him something. His shoulders lose a bit of the tension formerly holding them so stiff at that, “It’s fine, probably doesn’t need stitches” That is good, he supposes. No stitches. “How did that happen?” He can’t help but notice that he doesn’t Ask, that he asks <em> Martin to tell him </em> and not the eye. And Martin just nods to the chopped vegetables and the now-open-again window. </p><p>“I see, sit… sit down here, Martin” He is concerned, Martin realizes, when he guides him to sit on the chair, his hand now on his arm, he says his name more and more often when he is concerned. It’s… It’s warmth in his chest, the way Jon says his name. The entire time he didn’t say a word and now, instead of words, there are tears in his eyes when Jon lets go of his arm.</p><p>“Hey, it’s okay, Martin, i’ll get the first aid kit, alright? Just press down on it” It’s still Jon’s hand over it, wrapping around his wrist to hold it tight. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t go” Jon frowns and shakes his head, he doesn’t understand, and he won’t Understand, not like this. Not if Martin can’t say it, can’t bring himself to ask for it, because what if he is asking too much? What if he is <em> being </em> too much? A part of him says no, he is not, not to Jon, not anymore, </p><p>“Don’t let go” And then, it clicks. He can see it in his face, how his features soften, even if they weren’t hard before.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going anywhere, alright” he mumbles and looks to the towel and up to Martin and then to the door.</p><p>“I’ll just take you with me then. We need to dress this properly, but I won’t let go” He doesn’t let go, not as he guides Martin up the stairs and not when he grabs the kit with one hand and not when he sits him down on the edge of the bathtub, he takes Martin’s free hand to rest it on his own wrist, only then he lets go of his and carefully pries the towel away. Martin hisses, it stings and the cloth sticks, but </p><p>“I’m glad we don’t have to stitch that, with my hands, you’d just have a proper stab wound on top of that” Martin thinks of the worms and the Lonely, and the absence of all feeling, “or more than one” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve had worse” he mumbles and squeezes Jon’s wrist. </p><p> </p><p>“Sadly, I can think of a few things. Still, it… it looks worse than it is?” He looks up at that, smiling, it’s a nervous smile, he is not sure if he can make that joke. </p><p>“This will sting” The antiseptic burns differently, it burns cold, and then Jon takes out a bandage and carefully wraps it around Martin’s wrist. It looks wrong, as if something entirely else happened, but Jon doesn’t comment on it.</p><p>“Okay, all better” Martin swallows and looks away, he behaves like a child, crying and needing contact, he thought he had been able to lock it away but now it’s back. His tears drip down onto his freshly bandaged hand and not only his, Jon’s too, “Hey… Martin, Martin look at me” He doesn’t, even with Jon’ hand on his cheek once more, “What do you need?” He doesn’t compel him to answer, doesn’t Ask but for Martin, right now, he doesn’t have to. He can just pretend that he tells Jon anything until he can do so.</p><p> </p><p>“I… I need you” he blurts out and-</p><p> </p><p>“That’s alright. I’m not going anywhere without you” And carefully, as if he is not sure, Jon just wraps his arms around Martin’s torso. It burns a hole into him, it burns a hole into his heart and his head and his throat, it burns the cold that made itself at home inside of him away, it breaks him entirely, and he is only distinctly aware of how they are on the bathroom floor, how the tiles are uncomfortable and hard, but he breaks and sobs for so long, he doesn’t feel them anymore. Jon just holds him, and Martin wants to tell him that it’s too late, that Martin is already broken, that he doesn’t have to be careful anymore, that he is only pain on the inside. But he doesn’t. The shards of ice in his body melt with each shaking breath and with each careful word Jon utters and Martin hears but can’t listen to, with each stroke over his hair. It takes a long time until he turns his head away from where he cried Jon’s jumper wet.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m-” He doesn’t even get that far.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to be sorry for anything” Jon carefully strokes a few strands of hair out of his face, wet with saltwater, saltwater like the ocean and the thought makes Martin shudder. Jon’s own eyes are slightly red-rimmed too, and he grips Martin’s hand a bit tighter, “You’re not okay, and that’s alright” he stops, “not… not as in, it’s <em> good </em> or anything, but…” searching for words, “you are allowed to be not-okay, after everything. And in general” He smiles a little and his hand comes to rest atop Martin’s head, “you told me that. And you are usually right” Martin wants to protest, he is not <em> usually right </em>, but, “You can’t convince me otherwise, love” They stay like this for a moment longer before Jon sighs, “how about we move to the bed?” And no, Martin doesn’t dwell on the last word, it doesn’t give him an emotion he thought he couldn’t feel anymore, he doesn’t think about it. Of course not.</p><p>Tonight, like it wasn’t him who broke but the dike holding him back, Martin tells him. He tells him how he is scared of being alone, of how the Lonely cut him off of everything he held dear, of how reality sometimes doesn’t feel real without touch and how he is scared that it’s too much. </p><p>Tonight, Martin falls asleep in Jon’s arms, and the next morning, Martin will wake up entangled with Jon, with no way to get up without waking him. The next day, Jon spends his time in the kitchen with Martin, and they both spend the afternoon on a walk, arm in arm, and Martin spends his evening on the sofa with Jon. </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon really, really should have told someone about that stab-wound from Michael.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I stan Tim being the one who yells and also, Tim being protective of Martin. I just stan Tim to be honest.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Statement ends. It’s unfortunate, really, Tim tried to get in touch with Ms. Hillberg but she moved away from London some time ago. It’s still strange how a woman so-argh” Jon stops, still too caught in the statement and holding his injured shoulder, “apologies, a woman so connected to her family just decided to move <em> that </em> far away. It’s not the first statement this happened in, and not the first mentioning the fog all around. We should keep a closer eye on that. Recording ends.” He clicks the off-button with shaking fingers, misses it and then only just gets it done. It’s fine, his fingers shake a lot, it’s fine because his shoulder is definitely not bothering him, it’s fine because even if he got stabbed, he can take care of himself just fine, right? Right. This is all that matters. He is fine. It hurts, but he can deal with pain, he is in pain every single day. So he can deal  “Supplemental” He just keeps his finger on the button now, staring ahead, not at the device, “I… Martin and Tim seem to plan… something? I expect they’re going to talk to me about, well, the fact that I’m watching them. They know, it’s obvious, they even talked to Elias about it. But they are both even stranger today, Martin more so, he’s been in and out the whole day, keeps coming in to bring me tea. It’s just… No, it’s nothing. After Michael’s <em> visit </em> I am not sure about weather or-or-” he takes a shaking breath and closes his eyes. How did he lose his sentence? There is something wrong. He knows there is. It’s cold, maybe that is it? Maybe, if he concentrates, closes his eyes to concentrate, “I… I’ve been meaning to… to…” What? What did he mean to do? He takes his finger off the button and rubs his shoulder. He’s put a stack of compresses over it and taped that down tight enough he could barely move his arm, and of course, Martin noticed. Asked what happened. Tim and Sasha- Yes! This is where he wanted to go, “Talk to Sasha, yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to Sasha about him” Who? “About Michael” His hand feels wrong and he stops rubbing his shoulder, it hurts too much to be a good idea, “Just… didn’t have the time yet. Time for… for…” This is getting him nowhere, is it? Even shaking his head about himself hurts, and he definitely needs a break. Just five minutes of closing his eyes, to focus “End … supplemental” </p><p> </p><hr/><p>“Tim, call 911 right <em> now </em>” That is Martin. What’s wrong? Did someone get hurt? The shelves down in storage are at least as old as the archives themselves. They sometimes remind him of his grandmother’s house, her old furniture. He broke a chair once, just putting his bag on it. He still remembers how he fled to his room afterwards, hid there until the next morning. How his grandma refused to talk to him for the rest of the week.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, yes, on it, calm down, Martin!” Is Martin hurt? He feels a hand on his neck, right where his pulse is. Martin’s hand? Why is he checking for a pulse? </p><p> </p><p>“Is this even fast enough? We should just get him to a hospital ourselves” a pause, “I knew there was something wrong with you, why didn’t you just say something?” His voice is higher when he is worried. Martin is worried, he often is, too often about Jon. </p><p> </p><p>“...’m fine” Jon finds himself mumbling. Tim laughs in the background. It’s not an amused laugh. </p><p> </p><p>“Jon? Can you open your eyes for me?” Why on earth… Oh. Because they are closed, that’s why Martin asks him to. He blinks sluggishly at him, and Martin is frowning so deeply it looks almost etched into his forehead. Does it hurt to frown like this? A terrible, very unconnected part of him wants to smooth it out. He turns his head to see him crouching next to him, although he can’t remember when he came in here. He still has a hand on his pulse and the other… Pressing Jon to his seat? That’s not good, that is exactly what you feared someone might do, his brain provides, but he is still assessing the situation when Martin gets his attention again.</p><p>“Don’t worry, it’s alright. We’re calling an ambulance, stay with me until then, okay?” Stay…? He looks over and realizes that he is still in his office, </p><p> </p><p>“No” He mumbles and shakes his head at Martin’s confused face, “no hospital” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s not up for debate, I’m afraid, with how much blood there is. I know you’re going through a rough patch right now, but… You could have said something” Jon wants to correct him, because really, he knows a lot of good reasons why he didn’t say anything, why he refused to let <em> Martin </em> of all people know that he was injured. Not happening. He tries to sit up straighter but Martin’s hand stays, “No, stay calm, okay? It’s all going to be okay”</p><p> </p><p>“No hospital” He sinks back into his chair when all of his limbs refuse to work at once.</p><p> </p><p>“Too late, they’re on their way, Boss” He forgot about Tim for a moment there, “so, how about you tell us what happened there?” </p><p> </p><p>“Accident… In the… kitchen” he gets out through gritted teeth and swallows. Martin’s hand is warm. How long has it been since he had had any contact before? </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, sure, and the truth?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine!” Anger fills his veins and it’s all that’s giving him enough strength to push Martin’s hand away. He is fine! Doesn’t need anyone babying him, least of all his coworkers. He needs his cane and a cup of tea, and he’ll be <em> fine. </em> So he ignores the “whoa” from Tim and Martin’s surprised yelp and gets to his feet. He wants to turn to look at them, he’s standing so he’s proven he is fine, right? “See?” He gets out, but when he tries to look, it’s only darkness clouding his vision, “I… I might need a mo-”</p><p> </p><p>“Jon!” He doesn’t see the floor, just feels that his knees no longer support him and he is falling, falling - getting caught. One hand on his back, but the other inflicts a pain he hasn’t felt before, deep, so deep it’s shooting through his arm down to his hand and to his collarbone and jaw, one point of impact that lets off an explosion of pain in his torso, and not even someone calling his name is enough to refuse the gentle offer of peaceful nothingness that offers him a hand instead. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>He wakes up to antiseptic, disinfect and beeping. He could deal with the smell, he realizes, but the noise is actually unbearable. He hates hospitals. He hates the beeping. Can it stop? Please? A part of his mind tells him that it should not, under any circumstances even, stop. That the beeping is a good sign. It doesn’t matter, he wants his quiet back. Wants to sink back under. </p><p> </p><p>“You can see him now, but he’s only just waking up. Let him rest” A voice, a very far-away voice of a woman he doesn’t know. Why doesn’t he know her? He tries to remember, but there are only flashes, Martin telling him to stay with him. Tim saying something about getting him up. A scream. A light. More talking, but it’s all unimportant, isn’t it, because it’s not the voice of the woman. He still doesn’t know her voice.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you” Martin. He tries to blink and a sliver of light filters through, without glasses, it’s swimming, all is swimming, but there is a person coming closer, he thinks. This is nice. He does not like being alone. He always tried to be, always said he’d like it most. But while he doesn’t like big groups of people, one or two is okay. Is alright. The Martin-shaped person is actually in view right now. Concerned. Smiling. “Hi” Martin says and Jon just blinks again, not sure how to answer, not sure how to form the words and say them even less, “It’s okay, just get some rest, alright? Just sleep” </p><p>Oh, rest sounds like a good idea. A good choice. He closes his eyes and maybe makes a humming noise in response, but doesn’t remember.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>When Jon wakes up again, it’s different. His thoughts are clearer, he is half propped-up on pillows. He needs his glasses, where did he put them again? He can see without them, not as good as he wants to, he needs them. When he tries to move his arm however, there is a sharp sting in his shoulder. He hisses in pain, opening his eyes to look, because he is not at home - where did he think he was? - and his arm is a mess of white bandages and a sling, also white, so much white everywhere, his hospital-gown too, just the blankets have some blue stripes.</p><p> </p><p>“You deserve that” It comes from the left and he is not as alone as he thought - no, he didn’t even think that far. </p><p> </p><p>“Tim-” he stops when his throat is so dry the words sound like an attempt to cut down a tree with a pocketknife and he coughs, just that this just hurts worse,</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t yell at you like this, hold up” He blinks and then there is a straw in his mouth and his fingers wrapped around a cup. Tim leaves his around it too, a good choice, as Jon’s fingers tremble too much to hold anything steady.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you” he gets out and it sounds at least somewhat normal. Tim takes the cup away but doesn’t sit down, even if he sat before. Jon doesn’t know. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, great. You’re alive again, and you can’t run away. So, you’re listening now?” Even without his glasses he sees that Tim is angry. Where is Martin? He probably went home, not much to do here, right?</p><p>“Because it’s going to be around two minutes until Martin comes back and he won’t yell at you. And he won’t tell you that none of us signed up for this job to get traumatized, not you, not us, but that should also mean, that <em> you </em> are not in a position to cause us <em> further trauma </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“Tim-” he tries to intervene, because really, trauma?</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up and let me talk!” He is actually yelling now, loud enough that Jon is actually taken aback at that, “Martin found you passed out in your office, fucking bloodsoaked. And I don’t mean, oh, yeah, patch of blood, no, Jon, I’m talking blood-donation-on-your-cardigan-bad. Did he freak out? Yeah, by the way. You were literally bleeding out in your office, and you did not think about maybe… I don’t know - telling any of us? That you’ve been stabbed? Do you want to know how we found <em> that </em> out?” Jon automatically wants to answer but it’s better that he doesn’t get this far, “Because we didn’t even know! They told us when we arrived here” There is a policy for that, Jon thinks briefly, that his coworkers should not get all this information, but it’s the least of his problems because Tim is not finished and his face is red and christ, Jon feels terrible. And not from blood loss, the sting in his shoulder or how his hand only now gets some feeling back into it, he feels bad, but even worse because he knows Tim is right, “And they told us, that you’re lucky we found you. Martin was - and still is, a mess. In case you don’t remember, you woke up, told us to leave and passed out again, only just missing the edge of your desk” he is panting by now, furious but it’s not only anger. He is hurt, Jon realizes, he is hurt because Jon didn’t trust them. </p><p>“I know it’s hard for you right now. And I know you think… Everyone wants to hurt you, kill you, whatever, after what happened with Gertrude. I get it” He sounds a lot calmer now, </p><p>“But you could have died today, Jon. Maybe the fact that you didn’t will teach you that we are not the ones who you need to worry about. And if it doesn’t then…” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair, “then you maybe need to get your damn priorities in order” He shakes his head again, “Hey Martin. I’ll leave you to it now” Jon can’t say anything when Tim grabs his jacket and leaves. How much did Martin hear? How long has he been standing there? He doesn’t look up from where his hand is resting on his lap, the other tingling with the feeling that slowly gets back into it. Martin keeps quiet too, just gets a chair and sits down, putting a few things on the nightstand. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you going to yell at me too?” He asks after some time of silence and hears Martin sigh. </p><p> </p><p>“No. I think Tim did a well enough job. He is right, though. We miss you, you know”<br/><br/>“I’m sorry-” </p><p> </p><p>“I think you… you need to specify. What are you sorry for? For not telling us you were stabbed?”</p><p> </p><p>“For a start, yes” </p><p> </p><p>“Good. Don’t take it too far. But think about it” Martin puts his phone on the blanket, “I got you a charger. They’ll keep you here overnight, so text me if you need something. I’ll be back with clothes and to pick you up tomorrow” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to do that” Jon answers after a heartbeat. He feels enough like a scolded child already.</p><p> </p><p>“I think I do” Martin stands and then he is suddenly a lot closer, Jon’s glasses in hand, unfolding them and placing them on his nose, brushing along his ears in the process, pushing his hair out of the way, “I know you don’t trust us, but right now, I don’t trust you with taking care of yourself. Neither does Tim, for that matter” With glasses on, Jon can see his pained smile, and finds himself wishing Martin’s hand could linger. And he could stay, and he could trust him. </p><p>“Get some rest, alright?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and leaves.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Delirium</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Walking around in the cold while sick with a fever didn't do Jon any good, actually. Day 5 - Delirium, Conufusion, along with cradled and accident.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is a companion to chapter 3. I couldn't really not-do this, but I switched to Martin's POV. Also, thank you all so so so much for the kudos and comments, you are all super awesome!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Granted, finding Jon outside the house had been frightening. For a moment he had thought he’d seen it wrong, that there was not a person sitting on the roots of a tree, half slumped against it, that the person was not Jon, shaking even with the effort of keeping himself upright. And Martin tries not to be too concerned about how he apparently ran outside looking for Martin, scared he made him leave. He still doesn’t completely understand what Jon thought actually happened, he gets the gist, but it doesn’t really matter, his priority had been to get Jon inside, back to a normal temperature. So he put him back on the sofa and only left to put away the groceries, thinking practical, or trying to. Groceries, soup, fever medication, cuddling on the sofa. Martin never really thought Jon a particularly cuddly person, but these last few days, they are barely letting go of each other. It’s grounding for Martin, but seems to do the same trick for Jon. Even tonight, when Jon woke up from his own shivering, without seeing Martin, it had helped. He completely braced himself for all kinds of fever-induced nightmares, but every time Jon woke up, half conscious if even, he only asked for the time, if Martin was still there (of course), if he was okay. Mostly he fell back asleep before Martin could answer, or didn’t remember, especially about the time. Three or four times, and only for the last he’d been actually lucid. He doesn’t complain, why would he? He is worried for Jon, of course he is, but he is also able to take care of him. That makes everything a lot better, especially since he can’t just take him to a doctor or clinic <em> Yes, hello, this is my- my Jon, he is an Avatar of the eye, so if you see, I don’t know, eyes in his body that don’t belong there? That’s the reason! </em> Okay, no, he doesn’t know if Jon has any more eyes. He tries not to think about it, actually. He didn’t think it could get a lot worse after finding him outside, shivering and freezing, his hands still cold when they went to bed that evening, even when the fever returned. He didn’t think it would return with so much force, though. He is tired that evening, having barely slept the night before except from when he did nod off with Jon relatively calm and falling asleep for a part of the afternoon not being enough. He is also not immediately panicking when he wakes up to an empty bed. After all, there is a chance Jon just went to the bathroom. He grabs his glasses anyway, rolling over to touch the deserted bedsheets - cold. </p><p> </p><p>“Jon?” His voice is hollow with sleep and he hurries to get out of bed - he looks over to the bathroom but there is no light there. He knocks anyway, maybe he didn’t switch on the light and fell asleep? It’s a possibility, and the only thought keeping the panic away for now. He is panicking, a little. Finding your- Finding Jon outside today had done the trick. </p><p>He is not in the bathroom, however, instead there is a sound from the other room, a crash, cursing. There are two of them upstairs, their bedroom, and one that is empty except for a bunch of empty shelves, a few books and a desk. Martin feels like the expendable character at the beginning of a bad horror-movie when he sneaks out the bedroom and sees the door to the other open, though the light is off here too. And Jon is… He certainly is in there, but something is wrong about the picture. There is a chair on the floor, the few novels from the shelves strewn on the floor, the desk-drawer pulled out. Through all of it, Jon is moving with a naturalness that makes it look like he lived here all his life, muttering and quietly rambling like back in the Archives. Martin feels a stab of pain at the thought, the easier times, before Prentiss. It hadn’t been easy for Martin, per se, Jon despised him then, but… He saw Jon down in storage in the same manner so often. </p><p>“Jon?” he asks quietly and knocks on the door as to not startle him, and Jon turns around mid-step, catching himself on the wall.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, Martin, very good!” He dares to doubt that.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing here?” He is walking around the room, fumbling at the shelves. Martin still sees him stumbling with every few steps he takes and only carefully approaches. It makes no sense, Jon isn’t sleepwalking, or he wouldn’t talk, right?</p><p> </p><p>“I think I knocked over a chair, as it seems. The place is a mess. Have you seen one of my tape recorders?” It makes sense, Jon needs the statements, maybe they should have thought about how they could be a possibility to help him. But it should not be right now, and he could have woken Martin. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s the middle of the night, Jon” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, but I am not the only one still working, am I? I heard Tim talking to Sasha in the breakroom only a few minutes ago, and you are here too” Tim? Sasha? Tim and Sasha are both dead, even not-Sasha is, and it stings to think about them. Jon talking about them is not good. No, not good, not good at all.</p><p> </p><p>“Tim, but-” He steps further into the room. It’s just them in here, and the moonlight. Though Jon looks as busy as he can be, as if they really are in the Institute. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, of course. It’s one of his ideas, isn’t it? Hiding the damn recorder, I should have known. Thank you, Martin” </p><p> </p><p>“Jon, look at me” he reaches out to grab him by the arm, and he feels the heat before even touching him. It’s worse than the night before, and definitely so much worse than when they went to bed. It’s radiating off him,  “Christ, Jon, this is bad” Jon looks at his hand, frowning, then back up to Martin. Even in the low light he can see the sheen of sweat on his face, the shaking of his limbs. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m quite alright, Martin-dear. Don’t worry” It’s said softly. Jon looks at him and smiles, it’s a real smile but his eyes are cloudy and glassy. He has never called him ‘dear’ before. It makes his heart flutter, but panic shoves that down.</p><p> </p><p>“Jon, do you know where you are?”</p><p> </p><p>“With you?” But he frowns again, looking over to the door, “actually, I might be wrong” his voice gets unsteady, and a moment later his legs do, too, “I may be… feeling quite terrible” Martin catches him before he can fall, and Jon grips both hands in his pyjama, “It’s… I’m…” He mumbles against his shoulder. His forehead is burning, he can feel it through his own clothes.</p><p> </p><p>“I got you. How about we get you back to bed?” He gently proposes</p><p> </p><p>“No, no, there is… the cot is yours, I won’t take… take…” Martin sighs. The institute, Jane Prentiss. He doesn’t say how long ago it was, just carefully adjusts his grip. It would be easier if he could just pick him up, but he won’t do that without his full consent, Jon got kidnapped several times by now, and the last thing Martin wants for him is to panic.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re not in London” He doesn’t use the word ‘Archive’, “And that is over. You’re sick, and very confused” Jon doesn’t answer, only groans and his grip on Martin’s clothes goes slack, though he is still conscious. Dragging Jon back to their room and sitting him down on the bed is nearly an old game by now. Only then he sees the bruise on his cheek and the blood on his knee. “What happened there?” </p><p> </p><p>“Gertrude left the place <em> a mess </em>, it’s no wonder I fell” Jon grumbles and squeezes his eyes shut, “Martin, can you tell Tim…” he frowns again and Martin sits down beside him, inspecting the bruise. It’s not too bad, though Jon still flinches when he touches it, “I… I forgot something” he mumbles and sounds defeated. He leans onto Martin who is sure that he is, in fact, the only thing holding him upright. Jon really is a mess.</p><p> </p><p>“How about you lay down?” Martin proposes, pulling the covers aside, “I’ll be right back, just getting the fever thermometer, alright?” Jon doesn’t protest when Martin guides him down onto the pillows, is mostly limp in his arms. In the light of the bedside lamp Jon looks utterly spent. He most likely is, given that he walked around the room for god knows how long. Martin is just glad he didn’t fall down the stairs, “Don’t get up. I’ll be in the bathroom, the door is open, you can see me at all times” Jon just nods and turns his head to the side, eyes closed, but stays awake long enough for Martin to coax him into drinking some water and taking something against the fever, even putting a band-aid on his knee. It’s not yet healed, which is concerning, but maybe that is just some Avatar-thing he doesn’t get yet.</p><p> </p><p>“I… I don’t understand” he whispers when Martin is sure that he is asleep, eyes closed and shivering under the covers, “I don’t understand, Tim, I do trust you?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright, I know” Martin answers him after some time, not sure if it’s his place to do so, but also refusing to let Jon suffer from a question nobody will ever be able to answer him</p><p><br/>“Oh…” Martin just takes his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles - he won’t get any sleep tonight. </p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p>“No, Tim, don’t!” Martin barely catches Jon by the shoulders when he bolts upright, his breaths too quick and eyes too wide, staring ahead, struggling in Martin’s grip until he gets him to lay back down again, holding his face in his hands until he looks at him with a panicked stare. It’s the third time this happens, Jon dreams and dreams, sometimes unable to wake up. Martin can’t help him then, just talks to him, quiet words that mean nothing and won’t be remembered by anyone except the bedsheets. Jon woke up screaming about the spider, he woke up dreaming about Sasha and not-Sasha, sobbing into his pillow until he fell back asleep, exhausted, curled into himself and away from Martin.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, it’s okay! Jon, look at me! It’s okay!” Jon’s eyes only barely find his.</p><p> </p><p>“The wax museum, I- we- we have t-to go, the museum, Martin, Tim is… Tim is…” he pants and Martin picks up the fallen rag from the bed and wipes the hair out of his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Shh… It’s okay, it was a dream” Jon doesn’t seem to hear him though,</p><p> </p><p>“The ritual, we have to, we have to go, they need us, Martin-” The grip of his burning hand is surprisingly strong on his wrist and Martin leaves the rag on his forehead to hold his hand in both of his.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay. It’s over, everyone is okay” A blatant lie and nothing else, but Martin doesn’t know what to do anymore. Jon’s grip weakens and he shakes his head, turns it from left to right to left,</p><p> </p><p>“No, Martin, please, they’re all watching” Who all of them is? Martin asks himself the question, yes, but it doesn't matter. Martin is watching over Jon now, whoever else wants to, well.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just you and me. If anyone else wants you, they’d have to go through me first. Not a chance there” Jon squeezes his eyes shut, his breaths are still too quick and too panicked, he doesn’t really seem to hear him. He stares ahead, eyes empty, and this scares Martin more than the screaming or the dreams. Jon’s mind seems to go to places where he can’t follow him, places Martin can’t get him home from, “Jon, stay with me” He switches the rag for a new one and puts it back on his forehead, actually drawing a reaction from that.</p><p> </p><p>“Martin, they… The explosion, I’m burning” Jon barely whispers it this time. His eyes are wet but he doesn’t cry, not really. Sometimes Martin doesn’t know if he is Beholding or not, if the Eye does this too him. If all of this is a cruel game by the Eye.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re really sick, that’s why it feels that way” he gently answers and tries to ignore the groan Jon gives when he sits down behind him, pulling him as close as possible. He is practically cradling him in arms, but this way, Jon looks at him. Really looks at him. “Stay with me here, okay? We’re in Scotland, we’re safe” Jon frowns, swallows, and Martin wipes his face clean from tears and sweat, switching the rag once again, earning a whimper from Jon when the cold hits his burning skin. </p><p> </p><p>“Daisy?” he finally asks, voice hollow and raw.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, that’s good” Martin tries to smile and runs his hand through Jon’s wet hair, “You know, I talked to one of the farmers today, on my way to town, the one who owns the cows” Jon’s eyes are half open, but he still looks at Martin, then his eyes go distant again.</p><p> </p><p>“Tim-” he mumbles weakly and a violent shiver runs through him. He feels like a boneless doll in Martin’s hold, more like rubber. He pulls the blanket up again and tucks it around him. He probably shouldn’t, Jon is too warm, far too warm, but it’s only a thin, woolen one and he hopes the softness helps.</p><p> </p><p>“No, no stay with me, alright? One of the cows we saw the other day, she has baby calves. He says we can go see them if we want. They still need names, though he is quite worried about one of them” Jon’s hair is long and ridiculously soft, and he seems to take some time to process what Martin said.</p><p> </p><p>“Worried?” He has his eyes closed now. His forehead is still burning when Martin switches the rag a third time, but he relaxes a little at the cold instead of the whimper from before.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, he says she’s too weak. He has to feed her with a bottle. He even offered me to do it, but I told him that I’d have to go back to you. We can come back for it, though. Maybe we can even name her, what do you think? Can we find a suitable name for a small cow? It shouldn’t be that hard, between the two of us. Though, if you’re feeding her, you’ll need to be careful to not get any straw in your hair” He interprets the hitched breath as a laugh, “we could name and then adopt her? Our own fluffy cow. We’d always have milk, that way. I mean, we’d also have to build a shed or something for her, she can’t really live in the house though. I mean, if that would be possible, I’d love it but… I don’t think so. Maybe we should start smaller than with a whole cow, a cat, maybe?” He turns from cows to rambling, his hand not leaving Jon’s hair until his breathing evens out again, and he seems to have fallen back asleep. He doesn’t let go then, just adjusts his position to sit at least a little comfortable, switching the rag again, and keeps talking about cows and cats, dogs and the goldfish he had as a child until he eventually nods off too. </p><p> </p><p>He wakes to see two very tired eyes looking at him. Martin needs a moment to get his bearings - safe house, the events of tonight come dripping back. Light filters through the blinds, and the bedside lamp is still on. He puts his hand on Jon’s forehead again, the rag has fallen off and left a wet spot on one of the pillows. </p><p> </p><p>“Good morning” he whispers and smiles, “seems like you’re no longer a walking fireplace” He still feels warm, but certainly not as bad as before.</p><p> </p><p>“Name her Charlie” Jon’s voice is hoarse and weak, but Martin only grins more</p><p> </p><p>“Like in Charlie and the Chocolate factory? Because I watched that movie a million times. But do you think one name is enough? How about a last name?” Jon just keeps staring at him, “Jon?” </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe you exist” If Martin didn’t just feel for himself that his fever is no longer at dangerous levels, he’d think Jon to still be delirious, but he blinks up at him, no longer glassy-eyed or clouded, before finally mumbling, “And I can’t believe I didn’t fall in love with you sooner” and promptly falling back asleep.</p><p>Martin pretends very, very hard that he is not crying. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Let me know what you think?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Messy Breakdown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin averts the Eyepocalypse, Jon is a mess. Cuddling and blind!Jon.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This has been a ride my friends! Last chapter! Guys, I am overwhelmed with the responses, I can't even begin to explain how much this means to me. You are all amazing, and I think I'll stay in this fandom for a while? If that's alright, of couse. Again, thank all of you so much!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Martin’s hands tremble. He isn’t used to this, he is not a brave person in his opinion, he is not someone to act like this. Burning statements as a distraction for Elias? The whole business with Peter? Desperation, not more, still not as desperate as he is now. There is not a doubt in his mind that he acted right, there is no way he could have let Jon read the statement, there is no way he could have let it continue. He knew something was wrong when the cold brush of the Lonely made him shiver outside, all thoughts of giving Jon privacy be damned, he knew something was wrong. The day had been clear and the wind and rain only picked up when he left. The strangeness of their job made him suspicious of even this, even a weather change couldn’t be just that, and if it was, it didn’t matter. Better safe than sorry, right? So he turned around and hurried back inside, quietly as to not disturb Jon, and Jon- </p><p>He saw him sitting there, the recorder in front of him, his fingers gripping the sheets of paper so tightly his fingers bled, while silent tears dripped onto his shirt. Even if Martin had been wrong, even if nothing was supernatural about this, he couldn’t let Jon continue. Not if it hurt him like this, not if he tried to stop and just couldn’t. </p><p>And Martin is not brave, he is not a brave person, he is not a hero and he is no savior. But he protects Jon. Jon needs someone to protect him with all the mess he gets into, and Martin would do anything to stop it. He is not brave and he feels dizzy and sick when he rips the papers out of Jon’s hand, quick enough to get them before he can grip even tighter, quick enough to not even spare a glance before throwing them into the fireplace. Not quick enough to catch Jon, who falls to the side like a puppet cut off its strings, the tape recorder falling with him, but he is next to him in an instant, kneeling on the floor, tapping his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on” he mumbles but gets no reaction. Panic prickles along his neck, over his shoulders and down his back, but for a whole minute, Martin is not panicking, for a whole minute, he acts like he should. Jon’s eyes are half open, a milky green, unmoving and unblinking. Martin presses them closed and then gets a towel and wraps it around Jon’s head to keep him from seeing, keeps Elias from <em> using </em>Jon to See, switches off the damn recorder. It’s not good, but enough for now. He can switch the towel for some gauze later, if necessary. Jon doesn’t react to any of it. His face is clammy and wet from tears, his hands don’t stop bleeding like they should and Martin’s hands start to tremble. He’s seen Jon like this before, months ago, when he visited him in hospital he saw him like this. Unmoving, so still, and not sleeping. Jon looks different when he is sleeping than when he is unconscious, and yes, Martin knows. He is- </p><p>
  <em> Oh my god I killed Jon </em>
</p><p>No, he did not. He is breathing, shallow but he is, what if-</p><p>“Jon, wake up” he shakes his shoulders, and now his minute is over, the umbrella keeping him safe is gone, “Jon wake up, please wake up” He knows he is breathing, shallow but breathing, there is a pulse even if Martin has not the slightest idea if it’s too slow, too fast, anything aside from there, and it distracts him from his own breathing, how it’s too fast, how he can’t really breathe because his chest is too tight. The feeling is so familiar. He’s had anxiety attacks before, he knows how they feel different from panic attacks because he can work it out, he can't work out panic attacks, but he’s had plenty of experience with anxiety. He got them as a child, as a teenager, of course they got worse in the Institute. Nobody had been there then. Jon is here now, but Jon needs him.  “Focus, Martin” he pants and presses his hands to his chest, his heart beating too fast, but he can do it. He’s done it before, Focus is his key, “Focus. You can’t help Jon like this, he’s alive. You did… You did nothing wrong” His breathing starts up again then, because what if he did? What if he did something terrible? Wrong key, different key, “It’s okay, you’ll figure it out. You’ll figure it out” Him and Jon, together. Because Jon is alive, all that matters is that Jon is alive. He is alive. It’s the bare minimum he can work with. He needs to focus, hears the wind that’s slowing down, the old wood of the house creaking. He hears himself breathe and Jon too, “It’s alright. We can do this” Jon’s hand, pulse, he can feel it, grounding enough, not ideal, but he needs to calm down <em> now </em>. He opens his eyes and swallows, takes a slow breath in and a normal one out. </p><p>“We can do this” He looks at his still trembling hands, knows they won’t magically stop now,</p><p>“Okay Jon, talk to me” he gently pats his cheeks without getting a reaction and only now notices his bleeding hands. Talking is good, if Jon can hear him he’ll know he is alright, if not, it at least keeps Martin calm. Having something to do is good, and he winces in sympathy when he expects the cuts. They are not healed when they should be by now.</p><p>“I’ll get the first aid kit then, but…” He bites his lip and looks around. He can’t just… He can’t just <em> leave </em>him here. </p><p>“Okay, I’ll… I’ll pick you up now, okay? If it’s not, say something” Jon doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move and Martin takes that as a yes, “It’ll be much more comfortable when you wake up in a bed, you know?” Jon is concerningly light when he puts one arm behind his back and one under his knees, cradling him against his chest. His head lolls to the side and Martin stays put for a second, waiting for a reaction, only getting up when none comes. He is light and his body holds no tension at all, he doesn’t react when Martin cleans the cuts and wraps his hands in gauze. He exchanges the towel for a bandage too, just to be safe, even when Jon’s eyes stay closed. </p><p> </p><p>It’s almost two hours until something happens. Martin hasn’t left Jon alone for more than two minutes the whole time. He’s laying on top of the sheets, ghostly pale, but otherwise fine. As fine as he can be, of course, he is not really <em> fine </em> when he just almost… Martin doesn’t even know what <em> almost </em>happened. He only knows it hurt Jon. The weather calmed down again and the cold afternoon-sun peaks through the windows of the bedroom, illuminating the bed in front of it. Martin keeps his hand over Jon’s, stroking over it with his thumb every so often. He isn’t in the mood to read or listen to anything, too deep in thoughts. The papers are burned to ashes, whatever had been written on them lost forever now. He hopes so, at least. He also hopes that whatever is happening to Jon will let him wake up at some point soon, Martin can’t just take him to a hospital, let alone that he doesn’t know where one would be out here. He doubts either of them have any papers with them, the whole point of running away had been to disappear. Whose statement was it that Jon was forced to read? Whose statement was it, that hurt him like this, that he desperately wanted to stop reading and couldn’t? Since the weather calmed down, who sent it? What was it supposed to do? And what did Martin do in burning it? </p><p>Jon’s fingers twitch in his and he looks up to see him turning his head in Martin’s direction.</p><p> </p><p>“Jon, it’s alright” he whispers as Jon grabs his hand tighter, “It’s Martin, I’m right here” Immediately Jon’s breathing picks up, gets faster and Martin catches his hand when he tries to rip the blindfold off, he isn’t sure </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t see” he whispers hoarsely and Martin sits down on the bed, “I- I- I can’t <em> see </em>, Martin” </p><p> </p><p>“I know, I wrapped your eyes because-” But Jon shakes his head and he can see him blink against the cloth over his eyes, exaggerated movements as if to...</p><p> </p><p>“No, you don’t- don’t understand, I can’t see anything” Martin feels cold washing over him. He remembers the milky-green, the way Jon’s eyes didn’t move.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll help you sit up and then take it off now, okay?” Jon nods and clings to Martin’s sleeve when he gets him upright. He is shaking with the effort but maybe it’s not only that. Martin carefully pulls the blindfold off and Jon’s eyes stay closed for a second before he blinks, and this is the moment Martin knows it’s wrong, that the cold feeling is right. Jon stares at him, unseeing. His eyes are no longer tinted green, but still milky instead of his usual brown. Milky-white and blind. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t- I- I-” His fingers shake hard when he inspects his own face with them, touches his eyes and flinches back when it hurts, “p-p-put it- put it back- p-please, Martin, put it-” His breathing gets faster, more like panting and Martin just puts the bandage back without asking why.</p><p> </p><p>“Jon, it’s okay. Breathe with me, okay? We’ll figure it out” Jon’s hands turn to fists in Martins sleeves,</p><p> </p><p>“Elias, Jonah, he- He tried to end the world. I’m- I’m just- I am just his-” </p><p><br/>“Jon, breathe, alright? With me” <br/><br/>“No! He tried to end the world, Martin” Jon shouts it so sudden that Martin flinches back, “I’m a tool, you too, we all were, from the beginning. He made <em> me </em> his ritual, he made <em> me </em> his tool to end the world, Martin, he found a way to end it all through <em> me </em>, I ended the world-” He chokes on a sob and his hands fly to his mouth, “Martin, I ended the world, Elias made- I ended the world for Elias, I couldn’t stop, I tried but I couldn’t, I tried, but now-” Martin only catches his wrist the second time it hits the bedframe with force,</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t!” he interrupts him, now loud himself, “you didn’t! The world is. It’s not <em> fine, </em> never was <em> , </em> but nothing’s happened! You didn’t do anything!” </p><p> </p><p>“What? But the storm, I heard it, I couldn’t <em> stop </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“I came home early and burned the pages. You passed out, for almost two hours now. The world hasn’t ended” Jon stops hyperventilating and his hand goes slack</p><p> </p><p>“You- You- '' Martin takes his hand and presses it to his own chest when he notices that instead of breathing too fast, Jon now stopped breathing alltogether. </p><p><br/>“Breathe, Jon. Breathe, it’s okay” No, nothing is okay, Jon is blind, their boss tried to end the world, maybe he is still trying, maybe he is on his way to make Jon do anything, but that doesn’t matter right now.</p><p>He expects Jon to break. He expects him to shatter to a million pieces and is prepared to pick all of them up, to put him back together even if it takes years. He is fully prepared to do whatever it takes to keep him safe, to keep him away from Elias and Elias away from him. </p><p>He is not prepared for Jon to laugh. It sounds mad, high and hitching even higher in between, but before Martin can react more than with a puzzled look no-one can see, the laughing turns to sobs. For a moment it’s the same, then it changes to crying that shakes Jon’s entire body and Martin catches him when he falls forward.</p><p>“I got you” he whispers into his hair and Jon cries even more, no words, just tears wetting the blindfold and making his entire body tremble. Martin turns them so he can hold Jon, really hold him in his arms, if he breaks he’ll hold him together, when he breaks, Martin is there. His sobbing only gets louder, he shakes more violently until his cheeks are a feverish pink and his nose runs, but then he starts to scream. His hands, formerly pressed against Martin as if to make sure he still has a heartbeat now lash out in the opposite direction, to find anything solid to hit against. Martin presses his eyes closed in a futile attempt to stop his own tears from falling. It’s not physical agony, he knows it’s not, it’s a whole different level of pain, simple as that. He screams in Martin’s jumper and Martin holds his wrists in an iron grip to keep him from hitting anything. He doesn’t know for how long they sit there, until Jon is exhausted and falls back against Martin, still hiding his face but too exhausted for anything. His hands started bleeding again, but Martin doesn’t need to keep them still anymore, he has both arms around his Jon, holding him as tight as possible, rocking back and forth. His screams have succumbed to quiet sobbing, he is almost as limp in Martin’s arms as when he was unconscious. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t do this anymore” he whispers at one point, his voice hoarse and scratchy, sounding painful. He’s screamed his voice out, Martin thinks, and strangely, hopes it helped.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to” Martin quietly reassures him, “We’ll figure it out, we’ll figure it all out, you’re not alone in this” </p><p> </p><p>“I almost-” his breath hitches again and Martin presses a kiss to his head, </p><p> </p><p>“Almost. It didn’t happen. You didn’t do anything, you are not responsible for anything. Elias tried, but he didn’t succeed” The blindfold is completely wet from tears when Jon’s hand touches it, he feels along it until his hand finds Martin’s jumper again.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe we should… If Elias-” Martin shakes his head. Even if Jon can’t see him, he seems to feel it because he doesn’t finish his sentence. They are not leaving. After two weeks here it’s become more of a home than any place Martin ever lived at, including where he grew up with his mother. It’s not just the place, it’s Jon and their screwed-up lives, it’s the cows outside and it’s them in here. The house is not even theirs and still it is. </p><p> </p><p>“Elias can choke on his silken ties for all I care, Jon. We’re not leaving here, and I don’t think you are in any state to travel” Martin still has hope things can be alright again, some way, he hopes and hopes and hopes because that is what he can do, and he can do it enough for both of them. So he hopes, and he holds onto that hope that they’ll have something <em> after </em> all of this. That there will be some way for both of them to survive without… Without running away the whole time. Jon doesn’t answer, just nods weakly and reaches up with a shaking hand to touch Martin’s face. He helps him, carefully, lets him run his fingers over his eyes and nose and lips, tries to smile so Jon can at least feel it. But he also feels the tears on Martin’s own cheeks, and wipes them away before curling into himself, into Martin.</p><p>“We should get some fresh wrappings for your hands” Martin mumbles into Jon’s hair after some time. He isn’t asleep, too exhausted to talk, too exhausted to hold himself upright but not asleep, Martin knows the difference “and your eyes”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t… don’t go” Jon grips his cardigan tighter, slurring his words and trying to sit up, his breath hitching again. His nose is still stuffed from crying, his whole face a mess. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going anywhere” Martin promises and adjusts his grip, “but your hands are not healing, and they technically should have by now. I don’t want them to get infected” Neither of them wants to think about what it means that Jon’s hands are not healing at all.</p><p>“I’ll sit you down here, and keep talking, alright?” He waits until Jon is ready and lets go, presses another kiss to his hair before helping him lie down. His breath quickens again and Martin just holds his hand, strokes over his wrist until he’s calmer.</p><p>“I’ll let go now” he warns, but shrugs off his cardigan before getting up, gently draping it over him instead of a blanket. </p><p>“So, we ran out of tea this morning, but Daisy has coffee, though I know your opinion on that. I still have some herbal tea, of course” He gets a few rags from the bathroom and soaks them in water before returning. The kit is still next to the bed, messily put back together. Jon didn’t answer, but his fingers twitch in Martin’s direction. “Can you sit up?” he asks and Jon just shakes his head,</p><p> </p><p>“No, I don’t think so” he whispers and bites his lip. Admitting that hurts, of course. It’s not really Jon’s strong suit. He stays quiet when Martin re-wraps his hands and then his eyes, only asking him to keep them covered for now. He keeps quiet when he cleans his face. He stays quiet for the rest of the afternoon, when he is curled against Martin, until he falls asleep, exhaustion finally winning over him. It’s not until later that evening he says something. Martin didn’t even think him awake.</p><p>“Martin, what do we do?” It’s still hoarse and sounds utterly hopeless</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll figure it out” He simply answers and lays down next to him, carefully caressing his cheek. Jon brings his fingers up to feel Martin’s face again and he smiles at that, “We’re home, and we’ll figure it out. That’s all that matters”<br/><br/>“But… nothing is right. Nothing is okay” Martin knows he is right. The Institute, Elias, Georgie, Daisy, Basira, Melanie, the deaths of Tim and Sasha, the freshly averted Apocalypse - nothing is alright, nothing is even close to okay. Jon is blind and they don’t even know why. They can’t change anything about it at the moment, though. </p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s not. And maybe it will never be, but…” he leans closer, “I got you, and you got me. We’ll figure it out, even if it is the end of the world. You brought me out of the Lonely. Given our record, we can do anything” There is the hint of a smile on his face when Martin says it like that - it’s too optimistic. But it’s a start.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading, and consider letting me know what you think? I'm also on Tumblr @strangestarlightmusic</p></blockquote></div></div>
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